To Kill a Kingdom(54)

Madrid nudges me and lowers her voice. “The water isn’t warm,” she says. “But Kye wasn’t lying about the soap.”

“It beats jumping in the ocean,” Kye argues. “Unless you want me to fashion a new plank?”

“No,” I say. “We’ll save that for the next time you threaten me.”

He scowls. “If the captain wasn’t watching, I really would pitch you overboard.”

I roll my eyes and look over to the upper deck, where Torik is currently steering the ship. Elian leans on the railings beside his first mate. The same railings I was tied to. His hat hangs low over the shadows of his eyes, stance loose and casual. His left foot is hooked behind his right and his arms crisscross over his chest, but even I can recognize the difference between appearing relaxed and actually being so. It’s the mark of a true killer, to never show the fire within.

He watches us with hawk eyes, glancing back to Torik every now and again to continue their conversation. Mostly, he talks with me in his sights. He makes no qualms about surveying me because he clearly wants me to know that my every move is being watched. I’m not trusted, and Elian doesn’t want me to forget that. It’s smart, if not a little annoying, but the more he watches me and sees that I’m not doing anything, the more complacent he’ll get. And eventually he’ll forget to look at all. Eventually he’ll trust me enough that he won’t think he needs to.

“He doesn’t care that I can see him,” I say.

“It’s his ship,” Kye says.

“Aren’t I a guest?”

“You’re not a prisoner.” I don’t miss the disappointment in his voice.

For some reason, this makes me laugh. “He’s going to get bored watching me all the time.”

Madrid frowns, lines creasing through her tattoos. “The captain doesn’t get bored,” she says. “It’s not in his bones.”

I take in a long, cold breath and look back at the water. “What’s our next destination?”

“Psémata,” Kye says.

“The land of untruth.”

“Something you’re familiar with?” he asks, and Madrid smacks him on the shoulder.

“Actually, my mother made me learn about most of the kingdoms,” I answer truthfully. “She thought it would be useful for me to know about my” – I stop short before the word prey leaves my lips – “about history.”

“What did you learn?” Kye asks.

I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to Elian, who reclines farther against the railings, pitching his elbows onto the wood. “Enough.”

“And how many languages do you speak?”

I eye Kye carefully, aware that this is starting to sound like an interrogation. “Not many.”

There was never a reason for me to learn more than Midasan and a few other lingering dialects common throughout the kingdoms. My own language, for all its jagged edges, more than sufficed. Really, I could have chosen not to speak Midasan at all. There are many sirens who don’t learn the language, even if it’s so widely used in the human world. Our songs steal hearts no matter what tongue they’re in.

Still, I feel lucky knowing such things now. If I hadn’t, the prince would have killed me as soon as I opened my mouth. A human who can only speak Psáriin is not exactly the best disguise.

“The captain speaks fifteen languages,” Madrid says admiringly.

“Don’t forget to wipe the drool off your shoulder.” Kye points to her arm. “Right there.”

Madrid slaps his hand away. “I meant that it’s impressive because I only know two.”

“Right,” he says. “Of course you did.”

“Why would anyone want to know fifteen languages when most of the world speaks Midasan?” I ask.

“Don’t let the cap hear you say that,” Madrid warns. “He’s all for preserving culture.” She says the last bit with a roll of her eyes, as though there’s nothing she would like more than to watch her own culture wither to flames. “He studied in Glóssa, but in the end he realized nobody can master every language, except one of their royals.”

“Lira doesn’t need a backstory of the captain’s life,” Kye says guardedly. “Not when she could be trying on something that doesn’t stink of weapon grease.”

Madrid smiles. “Right,” she says, and snaps her fingers at me. “How do you feel about something a little bolder?”

“Bolder?”

I hesitate, and the beginnings of a smile drift over Madrid’s warrior features.

“Don’t panic,” she says. “I just mean far less damsel and far more buccaneer.”

I nod slowly. I couldn’t care less what she dresses me in, so long as it warms my fragile bones, because right now the cold is pressing against them with the weight of a hundred sirens.

I dare another look at Elian. His hat shields his eyes from the midday sun, but I can still feel them on me, watching. Waiting. For me to slip up and reveal my true intentions or, just maybe, for me to do something to earn his loyalty. Let him watch. If Madrid has her way, the next time he sees me, I’ll be as much of a pirate as he is.





23


Elian